


What Falls Away

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Episode Related: The Sentinel: by Blair Sandburg, M/M, Partner Betrayal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 03:11:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/793361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim's thoughts, post-TSxBS</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Falls Away

**Author's Note:**

> Lots and lots of thanks to Liz and Julian, for encouragement 

## What Falls Away

by Tracy

Author's disclaimer: If it belongs to Pet Fly, I'm just borrowing it. If it doesn't belong to Pet Fly, it's mine. (Except Jim's elephant poem is "An Elephant in the Room" by Terry Kettering. And "Name" Belongs to The Goo Goo Dolls.) 

and betareading. Spoilers for "The Sentinel, by Blair Sandburg". Caveat Lector \-- Read at your own risk! 

* * *

What Falls Away 

And even though the moment passed me by, I still can't turn away I saw the dreams you never thought you'd lose, tossed along the way... ('Name', The Goo Goo Dolls) 

Sandburg is the worst goddamned liar I've ever seen. Yeah, I know. Not the words I'd have chosen to describe Mr. Obfuscation either. But he is. If you know what to look for, you can see right through him. He needs to work on his eye contact. He touches his face too much. And his pulse sounds like a fucking jackhammer, not that that'd help you any. Still, I know why he did what he did, and I respect the hell out of him for it. 

He won't talk about it, what he did. I'm not going to push him, either. I know Sandburg, and the time will come. I know it will. I know this because he still has it, the dissertation. It's still in the strongbox, stuffed in the back of the closet in his bedroom. Like the elephant in that poem, it's always there between us. But we don't talk about it. 

What he did -- no one has ever done anything like that for me. No one. I've never expected anyone to. It was going to come out sooner or later, that I have these senses, and I guess I was figuring it would go down pretty much the way it has, with Sandburg at my side, helping me protect our city. But mostly, with us surviving. Going on. Together. 

Simon and Megan, _that_ I didn't expect. Gunned down right in front of me. I was stupid, I know that now, to not expect that. Our lives are in danger, now, both of us, since this information is out there. I'm not stupid, and I don't think Sandburg is either. Neither of us believes this is all going to just go away. Not even now. I've had a lot of experience with cats, and believe me, once they're out, they're very difficult to get back into their little bags. I'm not belittling his sacrifice, not in the least, but Sandburg's press conference was more like a Band-Aid on an arterial wound. At best, he's given us some time to figure out what the _hell_ we're going to do next time I'm outted. 

And all he said was "No big, Jim. It was just a book." 

Just a book, my ass. 

He says it was the only thing he could do, the only option open to him. I'm not sure how true that is. It's not that I don't think it was a good choice; it's just that I wonder sometimes if his degree -- his career -- was salvageable. The other night I laid awake wondering if shitcanning his life's work really _was_ the only thing we could do. And I don't know. I really _don't_ know. 

There are boxes all over, piled three and four high, some places. So much _stuff_. I mean, he brought home the fucking _door_. Makes me think of the last time there were this many boxes in the loft, and it gives me chills. He's not going anywhere this time, though. He spends hours in there, in his room, sorting through his life, deciding what to keep. I'd wanted to put it all in storage, give him some time before he had to deal with all this. He said, "It's not like I've got anything else to do right now," and dove in. He stops to read sometimes, the dissertation, a text, an article, and he gets this spacy Sandburg look on his face. I don't think he knows, but I've seen him, and I can't help but wonder if he's thinking of three million dollars. 

No, knowing him, he's worrying about his Anthro 101 class. 

I can't fix this for him, and it kills me inside. All I heard about a week ago were these super-fucking-powers I have, and now-- now I'm helpless. Powerless. 

I can't protect him. I can't save him. I can't even keep him safe, not for very long. But he's a big boy, Sandburg is. He's an adult. And he's made his decision, and I've made mine, and as much as I'd _like_ to fuck the world and climb out onto the roof of Cascade Tower, and just yell, "Yes! God damn it, _yes_! I, James Ellison, _am_ a fucking Sentinel!", as much as I'd _like_ to do that, because I am so _tired_ , so _bone_ -tired, of keeping this to myself, I know that doing that is tantamount to signing my own writ of execution. And Sandburg's, too. 

You know, I don't deserve him. _No one_ deserves him. 

I don't love easily. Or well. If anyone knows this, it's Blair. And I am continually stunned by his capacity for love, his courage. By _him_. 

And it's not only recanting his research. It's diving in headfirst like he does all the time, into policework, into this Sentinel shit, into life, into everything. 

I don't think I ever thanked him properly. I'm not sure I'll ever be able to either. How can I? Does Hallmark _make_ a "thanks-for-scuttling-your-every-dream-so- _my_ -life-has-some-semblance-of-normality" card? No, "Thank you" just doesn't cut it. Not in this case, anyway. 

I keep thinking someday I will make this all up to him. And maybe someday I will. _Somehow_. 

He'll be a good cop. He _is_ a good cop. He's a good _man_. I've seen enough of both to know, that Sandburg -- Sandburg's right up there. With the best of 'em. Give you the shirt off his back, lay down his life for you. Matter of fact, he's done just that for me. Twice, now. 

But does he regret it? _Will_ he regret it, when he's old and gray? When he first has to pull that gun? When he has to kill someone? When the world isn't as black and white as he thinks it should be? 

He says he's fine with this. He says he'll adjust. And he will. 

We will. 

* * *

End What Falls Away. 


End file.
